Recap: The dinner at the Gurus end awkwardly with Zaara calling Neelam Guru a pimp, much to the embarrassment of her mother.

501, Luxembaag,

Pali Hill,

Bandra (West)

Mumbai

Dear Ms. Pandit,

Thank you so much for sending us your CV and resumeé. They are both very impressive documents. While we’re flattered that someone of your calibre has taken an interest in our school, we are unfortunately unable to offer you a position at the moment. The pandemic had forced us to let go of many teachers who had been working with us for years. Our recruitment priority is to reinstate them to our team. We will, however, review your profile in six months, when we reconsider hiring for the new semester.

We are sorry that we do not have better news for you. We would have certainly liked to have such an erudite young lady as yourself in our IB English department.

Sincerely,

Dean Amogh Basu,

Stride International School, Mumbai

Dear Ms. Pandit,

Thank you for your interest in the teaching position at our school. Unfortunately, we do not have any positions available in the ICSE English department at the moment. Would you be interested in teaching Marathi instead? We can start you at a salary of INR 35,000 per month.

Best,

Admissions,

M.G. Patil School,

Mumbai

Dear Ms. Pandit,

Thank you for reaching out to us. However, as a heritage school with a history of 160 years of excellence, we only hire teachers who are recommended by our board of trustees.

Sincerely,

Admissions,

Bishop and John Cotton School, South Bombay

And so it went on and on. Seher laid the nine envelopes down with a slump and crossed her arms over her head, blocking the living room out as she let her head sink into their soft white sofa. She wasn’t one to lose heart and sit in self-pity, but she’d never been rejected so unaninimously before. Not as far as her career was concerned. She’d always been top of the class. Educating and upskilling herself beyond what was required so that she never really had to compete. Before she walked into an exam center or an interview for a teacher’s assistantship, she knew she’d already won. She needed that knowledge to enter the room. To enter any room.

“This first letter isn’t too bad.”

Seher looked up, to see her mother looming above her, in her silk robe, reading through her correspondence. Raahi was never one for boundaries.

“Ma”

“What?” Raahi sat down by her long-limbed, too-thin daughter, who even while splayed on the sofa, took up only half of it. “The Dean of Stride wrote to you himself. That’s a good sign.”

“Not if the sign is No Entry.”

“Write to him again in six months,” Raahi said gently, laying a kiss on her furrowed forehead. “He sounds sincerely impressed by your profile. I’m sure he’ll consider you.”

A tear escaped Seher’s eyes. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t felt quite so... helpless before this. Whatever else had gone wrong in her life, she always knew she had the work of her mind to rely on. She had never encountered a situation like this, where nobody wanted her mind.

“MA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Zaara raced into the room, holding an envelope, and then slowed, surprised, when she saw Seher in Raahi’s arms, sniffling. Her elder sister never needed to be comforted normally.

Seher wiped her face with the ends of her loose white dress and said, most nonchalantly, “What’s up?”

“Aparna’s driver dropped this off.” She handed Seher an envelope. “For you.”

Seher’s red eyes dried right up, with surprise. She hadn’t expected to hear from that family ever again.

Both Raahi and Zaara watched with anticipation as Seher took the letter delicately and opened it. Her expression, however, remained inscrutable as she read the note.Then she folded the note and put it in her pocket, revealing nothing.

“Well???” Zaara demanded.

Seher sighed.

“She apologised for Azaan’s behaviour. And she hopes we can continue to be friends despite all that happened. She’d like to help us, in whatever way she can.”

“How nice,” Raahi sniffed, clearly unimpressed by the apology. “She can help by getting you a job.”

“Ma,” Seher said with a sympathetic shake of her head.

“What?” Raahi shrugged. “She’s well-connected. She could find you students, if not a school.”

Seher paused. Her mother wasn’t simply being indignant on her behalf. There was something useful here.

“Like for after-school lessons?”

Raahi nodded.

“Jaspal was telling me at dinner that his nephew’s English tutor charges three thousand an hour for lessons at home.”

“Oh that’s a good idea,” Zaara quipped. “Aparna aunty should be able to get you students. All her friends have kids or grandkids.”

“And if she’s truly feeling bad about the way her pig of a son behaved, she’ll move heaven and earth to get them to sign up for your classes.”

Surprised, Seher stood up and looked down at her mother and sister, meaningfully. “Will you two be alright with me conducting classes from home?”

“Absolutely!”

“Sure, why not?”

Seher felt the dread drain out of her face. For Raahi and Zaara Pandit to allow strangers into their home, to turn their pretty living room into a place of commerce, filthy with children, was a big deal.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to work in Bombay at all. Much less bring work home.”

“I’d prefer you to work from home honestly. I don’t like the idea of you being answerable to anyone,” Raahi said, “Being a tutor means you can be your own boss. And make a fair amount of money too.”

“Gosh, I just want Seher to teach because it makes her happy.” Zaara rolled her eyes. “Why are we always talking about money?”

Raahi turned to her younger daughter, eyes narrowed.

“Fine, let’s talk about last night instead. What was that with Neelam Guru?”

“It’s Neelu, babe.” Zaara batted her eyelids, in a perfect imitation of Neelam Singh’s sign off to them the evening before. Raahi suppressed a smile.

“Zaara, no matter how off-putting that woman is, I raised you better than that outburst. You cannot call your hostess a pimp, sweetheart!”

“Even if she insinuated that you’re a prostitute, Ma?,’ Seher challenged.

“Exactly,” Zaara exclaimed. “You raised me to stand up for myself, Ma. I wasn’t going to just sit there and listen as she insulted you and then me by presuming that I’d become one of her... influencers.”

Raahi shook her head, but she said nothing to further condemn Neelu Singh. She had been irritated by the presumption herself. The entire way Neelam Singh had conducted herself that evening had been worthy of contempt. But suggesting that her incomparable daughter become some tacky social media model was the absolute worst.

“I don’t think what she was suggesting was all that inappropriate to be honest.”

Both Raahi and Zaara turned to Seher, astonished.

“This is coming from you?” Raahi said. “The girl who told Roberto Cavalli he’s gauche for suggesting she be photographed at his club in Milan?”

Seher blushed at the memory. “That was a long time ago. I was 18 and an idiot, because I could afford to be one. But we can’t afford the lifestyle Zaara is used to anymore. If becoming an influencer means she gets to enjoy herself again, I wouldn’t judge her for it.” She looked at her sister gently. “Think about it Zaaru, you could eventually bag an endorsement from Dior. Maybe get that candelabra back-”

“Absolutely not,” Zaara said, drawing herself up. “I’d rather wear last season’s clothes for the rest of my life than start performing whatever is left of my life.”

Seher resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Twenty two and her sister was talking about what was left of her life.

“In any case, I don’t think the Gurus are ever going to offer us anything again,” Raahi said with a sigh. It was a pity too. She had enjoyed being fawned over by Jaspal. It was a welcome relief after the last few months of being treated like a washed-up has-been.

Seher rolled her eyes now actually. Her mother could sometimes be even more naive than her baby sister.

“Please Ma. I’m sure if you check your Facebook Jaspal will already have tried to friend you.”

“Ahem. Guilty.”

The women turned, shocked, to see Jaspal Singh enter, from the marble corridor.

Seher’s face reddened with shame. Zaara nearly choked on her coffee, from reining in laughter. Raahi rose, stunned.

“How did you... did we leave the door open?”

Now it was Jaspal’s turn to look shame-faced.

“Uh no,” he confessed. “I have a spare key.”

The shock on the women’s faces must have alerted Jaspal to the inappropriateness of this remark. He took the key out and laid it on the coffee table before them, with a shameful clink.

“Which is yours now. Obviously.”

(To be continued)

This is the 21st episode of Riva Razdan’s serialised novel Nonsense and Respectability, published every Sunday

Riva Razdan is a New York University graduate and currently working as a screenwriter and author based in Mumbai. Her debut novel Arzu was published by Hachette India in 2021